


H2Eau

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominance, Ficlet, Jealousy, M/M, Object Insertion, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4252332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Spock get to reverse their roles in an alien bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	H2Eau

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Super possessive!Spock and needy/loving it!Jim? dirty talk?” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). (Before anyone asks, naming it after the bar in Dante’s Cove.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s no discussion about it beforehand. There are few times when Spock makes _those_ sorts of plans, as opposed to the educational kind that put Jim to sleep. And he knows that part of the reason for that is there’s _no good reason_ —by rigid Vulcan standards—for a first officer and his captain to visit an anonymous bar in the middle of nowhere. Jim knows if he plucks at that string too hard, Spock will change those plans—out of embarrassment, though he’d never say it—so Jim keeps his mouth closed and follows Spock onto the transporter pad, smiling innocently as Scotty beams them down. Like all the other senior staff finally getting shore leave, they have twenty-four hours to enjoy Mrennenimus Prime’s alien delights. They land at Spock’s pre-arranged coordinates, and Spock looks at him, expressionless as ever, but clearly studying his eyes.

Jim grins all the harder and says amidst the grumbled bustling all around them, “You have the conn, Commander.” Spock nods his head subtly, as though acknowledging a hidden code instead of Jim’s usual teasing. The street they’ve arrived in is dark but flashing high above in bold neon collars, letters from a hundred different languages, lighting all the different kinds of flesh hurrying along below. This entire district is _anonymous_. Before you’re given clearance to beam down, you have to review the terms. What happens in this district _stays_ in this district, like a certain Earth city Jim would love to drag Spock to, only so much more _exotic_.

Spock’s in control of this one. He needs that sort of protection for certain parts of him to emerge—the human ones, or the pre-Surak side, as Jim so affectionately calls it. He isn’t the only Vulcan along the street, but he spares them no second looks. He slips his hand into Jim’s, the pseudo-electricity of his touch-telepathy igniting across Jim’s skin, and he leads through the crowd, Jim hurrying to follow. 

It’s one building in particular that Spock leads them to, but Jim doubts it holds any special significance for him. As soon as they’ve reached the pitch-black entrance, Jim knows it’s a bar. He can smell the alcohol and hear the electronic noise. Bars aren’t exactly Spock’s scene, but there’s probably very little in this area that are, and there’s something to be said for getting lost in a crowd. Spock doesn’t drink, but he can for show.

There’s a person at the door, made of pink and purple skin, mottled all together and covered down the front in thin green strips that only vaguely obscure their nudity. They hand Jim and Spock a simple chain, glittering silver in the florescent glow of the sign above their heads. Spock takes it without a word and ushers Jim inside. His arm loops around the small of Jim’s back, and Jim savours the touch, though he can feel the tension in Spock’s muscles. It’s difficult for him to accept release like this. Jim looks him in the eye, sending a surge of support across their bond, always there from one too many mind melds and that overwhelming connection they can never seem to shake. Spock seems to harden, understand. It’s okay to give in, sometimes. This is a special occasion, and it serves a purpose. It gives them release. Gives them potent memories. Strengthens their relationship. It’s only logical. 

Spock takes a step forward, away from the door, and Jim follows until he’s flattened into a smoky glass wall. It’s only a hallway, curving sideways, dark but for blue lights on the floors, corralling them deeper inside. Two Bolians pass behind them and wander down the corridor towards the pounding music. An Andorian and a Grazerite are a few paces away, ignoring them, kissing one another hard against the wall. Spock sorts out the chain, lifting one of the ends and opening the clip.

He uses his other hand, the chain looped around it, to dip inside Jim’s collar. With their tunics off, they’re in just _black_ : the better to blend in. Jim’s only accessory is a thin black choker that fits snug against his throat, matching and looking almost like part of his top. It comes in handy here, where Spock can clip the chain to it. The metal rests coolly against Jim’s adam’s apple, and he swallows once just to feel it, looking at Spock through half-lidded eyes. He feels suddenly like a dog wearing a collar. It gets better when he’s leashed to his master. Spock clips the other end to one of his belt loops, locking them together. There’s a fire in his dark eyes. He doesn’t have to smile for Jim to know he’s enjoying it. 

Then they’re moving on. Spock grabs Jim’s arm, even though the chain has him tethered, and ushers him quickly down the hall. They pass an Orion woman on the way that Jim gives a broad, slick smile to, not because she’s beautiful but because he likes the angry tint of green it brings to the tip of Spock’s ears. The hallway is something like a spiral, but they break out of it to fit into a booth, tucked in the wall like a hidden alcove, with a murky view of dancing bodies on one side and the hard concrete wall of the club on the other. There are two black benches and a small glass table, thin enough to walk around without much trouble. Spock has an easy time of pushing Jim through that gap. Jim stumbles where he’s guided, until he’s grabbed by his hip and turned, then slammed back against the wall, his shoulders hitting it hard enough to make him gasp. Spock’s on him in a heartbeat, pinning him to the concrete.

He’s being kissed before he can talk. The _human_ way, all teeth and tongue, Spock’s mouth hard against his. He can feel the perfect bow shape of Spock’s soft lips, made harder by the way Spock brushes so fiercely against him. Jim’s mouth is already open from his gasp, and it makes it easy for Spock’s long, wet tongue to push inside, swirl over his and traces his sides, shoving forward only to pull back again, keeping him off balance and trying to fuck his throat. Spock has a certain way of kissing that always makes Jim at least a little dizzy, and his brain’s made all the foggier by Spock’s thigh thrusting between his. With Spock’s body blocking Jim’s from view, Spock can subtly grind their hips together and have no one the wiser. There are no lights in their booth. There doesn’t need to be. When Spock finally releases Jim’s mouth, Jim’s left struggling for air and watching the blue of the hall silhouette Spock’s edges. Jim can see enough to appreciate him. He’s so _handsome_ , especially when he looks as razor-sharp as this, like an animal with bared fangs, just waiting to devour its prey. 

Jim licks his lips and can’t help but tease, “Pon farr’s coming early?” Spock’s steady gaze is almost a glare, but Jim can’t help himself. Spock doesn’t need to say anything. Jim, of all people, knows that sometimes, his human half must assert itself. And it does all the more relentlessly for all the time Spock keeps it so suppressed. Jim completely understands the need for shore leave, despite his first officer’s protests. 

There’s no protesting now. They’re here, the Enterprise is safe in orbit, and they may as well enjoy themselves. Jim tries to lift his hands to Spock’s chest, but Spock grabs his wrists and slams them harshly against the wall, biting hard against Jim’s knuckles. The rough treatment combined with the spark of Spock’s hands on his make him want to _moan._ A glowing yellow woman turns the corner, and Jim eyes her over Spock’s shoulder instead.

Spock glances back as she approaches, but Jim winks before he does, directly at her, just to make Spock’s grip tighten. The waitress stops at their table and her eyes immediately seek out the chain, the way it’s positioned probably telling her everything. She has no way of knowing that they’re _equals in everything_ , except on the bridge of their home, where Jim is _captain_. Here, Jim is little more than a pet, Spock his master. She looks at Spock only and asks, “Two glasses, or shall one be a bowl?” Jim shivers at the implication. Given the chance, he would be more than happy to kneel at Spock’s feet and lick his drink out of a dog bowl.

But Spock says, “He will have none,” and the waitress smiles with all three eyes before leaving. She never asked what kind of drink. Perhaps Spock ordered ahead of time, or perhaps it doesn’t matter. Jim’s done enough to misbehave and doesn’t ask.

The music’s blaring, and it makes Jim want to dance, grab this gorgeous creature and drag him out onto the dance floor, grind into him for all the planet to see. But then, it’s just as good being here, crushed against Spock’s weight with his arms at Spock’s mercy. Spock asks, remarkably levelly but with that note of subtle _danger_ laced under his tone, “Are you flirting with others on purpose?”

Jim grins wickedly. He’s half proud of his Vulcan lover for even noticing. He purrs, “You know you’re the only green-blooded hobgoblin for me.” Spock’s eyes flash, the reminder having worked. He starts to move Jim’s wrists, shifting them higher up the wall, until they’re pinned together above Jim’s head and Spock can hold them both with one hand. His inhuman strength is evident, but Jim doesn’t try to struggle. 

Spock leans closer, so near that Jim can feel the brush of Spock’s even-cut bangs and the warmth of his breath, and he asks, “Are you taunting me with your relationship with Dr. McCoy on purpose?”

Absolutely. He’s only friends with Bones, and Bones is friends with Spock, to an extent, but nothing seems to get Spock’s jealousy riled up like a reminder that Jim spent his Academy years living with another man. That he’s still so close to that other man. That sometimes he’ll splay his hand against Bones _just so_ , only to make the beast in Spock flare up like a wild le-matya. Jim lifts his chin defiantly and coos, “What if I am?”

Spock asks, “Permission to speak freely, Captain?” 

To witch Jim immediately answers, “Granted,” and shows on his face that he left his title at the door. It’s Spock’s bizarre way of making absolutely sure of their roles. But he should know by now—does know, through their bristling bond—that Jim _adores_ when Spock fights to _own_ him. He bids Spock further over the edge with his eyes, knowing Spock wants this just as badly. 

Spock turns his face so that it can fit alongside Jim’s, and he can hiss just in Jim’s ear, “I was warned about mating with a full human.” Jim’s breath hitches—he _loves_ when Spock starts to talk like this, with all that forbidden _savagery_ they all know Vulcans carry. Spock’s teeth graze along the bottom of Jim’s round ear, idly marking what’s _his_ as he continues, “I was told how _filthy_ and disgusting they are. They’re _weak._ They have no discipline. No sense of propriety. They spread their legs and their seed wherever they wish, with no foresight for the future...”

Jim arches his body, trying to flatten his chest tighter against Spock’s, his legs spreading around Spock’s thigh. He’s all that and more, and for some reason, it makes him _hot_ to be scolded for it. He feeds into it, as wanton as he can, and tries to grind his crotch against the thick bulge in Spock’s pants. Spock growls, “You were always particularly poor in that category.” The words almost sound foreign on Spock’s tongue, except Jim knows him better, knows that he can _snap_ , and he can play their game as well as anyone. He purrs, just the way he knows Jim likes, “I knew you were so shamefully behaved when I first took you. I thought perhaps I could tame you, teach you self-control... I should have known you would be beyond what my techniques can save. Perhaps you cannot be held by one man...”

“I can,” Jim mumbles, his voice breathy, almost a moan. He thrusts his hips forward as much as he can, pinned in place as they are, and grinds his clothed cock against Spock’s. “I _am_...”

“You are immature,” Spock retorts. “You flaunt yourself for any one that will look at you...”

Jim means to protest but somehow groans instead. He wants to say that it’s only _Spock’s_ leash he wears, that it’s Spock’s bed he comes to every night, that it’s Spock he thinks about on the rare occasions shifts force them apart, and he has only his hand. He’s wanted Spock so long that he can hardly remember picturing anyone else. He tries to turn and kiss Spock now, but Spock pulls his head back too far. 

One hand still firmly holding Jim’s wrists in place, Spock dips the other down Jim’s body. He glides over Jim’s chest, along Jim’s stomach, traces the hem of his black, standard-issue pants, and slips inside. Jim’s breath catches instantly, his crotch shoving forward into Spock’s palm, and Spock lets his long fingers part around Jim’s cock. They wrap around it, grabbing it almost painfully tight. Spock’s body blocks the entire show from view, but it doesn’t stop Jim from feeling wonderfully exposed. He gasps when Spock squeezes him, exerting complete control. 

Spock tells him, voice taut and nonnegotiable, “If you truly wish to enjoy a Vulcan’s touch, you will cease such impudent behaviour. You will not dare to so much as look at anyone else while you are in my presence.”

Jim moans, “I’m _sorry_ ,” even though he _isn’t_ , he’d do it again in a heartbeat, because he knows this isn’t _all_ a game, and there really is the turbulent, _emotional_ core to Spock that broils up every time he thinks his mate acts unbecoming. Spock’s squeezes Jim’s cock tighter, and Jim has to stand up on his toes to take it, his mouth open wide and his eyes nearly tearing. 

“I know you better than that,” Spock says. “I can smell the arousal in you even now.”

Jim murmurs between sharp inhales, “That arousal is just for you.” His cock is straining against Spock’s hand as he says it, desperate for more of Spock’s touch, and Jim tries to push his thighs forward to press his balls against Spock’s knuckles. He’s starting to wonder why they left their bed at all; he should’ve never bothered getting dressed, just pulled Spock down on top of him. But then he wouldn’t have this _feral_ beast, and they make love enough to warrant a few rounds of hard, dirty _fucking_.

Finally, Spock kisses Jim again, smashing into him with bruising force. His mouth is filled with Spock’s tongue, plundered so fully that he can feel the saliva welling up at the corners of his lips, but his mouth is held open so that he can’t swallow, some of it spilling down the sides. Spock devours him, kisses him over and over while Jim pushes through the bond his overwhelming _devotion_ ; there’s no one else in his life that matters but _Spock_ , and he truly belongs to Spock so completely. He did even before he took the Vulcan vows. He whines when Spock’s hand snakes out of his pants, but their kiss doesn’t break and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

He’s only released when the waitress returns, slipping quietly behind them to place a drink on the table—a tall martini-like glass with a thin metal rod inside it like garnish, the liquid clear and colourless. She smiles at Jim and activates some kind of screen across their booth as she leaves, a force field barrier that obscures the view out and probably in, like the bleary glass beyond. Before Jim has a chance to smile back at her, she’s gone, and Spock’s tugging him forward by the chain. Spock takes a seat on one of the benches while Jim stumbles over him, pulled down into Spock’s lap by waiting hands. He’s turned to face Spock, his legs spread around Spock’s thighs, and he puts his now-free hands on Spock’s shoulders, breathing hard and wanting _more_.

But Spock looks around him, holding his hip with one hand and the other reaching for the drink. He takes a single sip from it before he lifts it to Jim’s lips, pressing the brim against them without asking. Jim opens his mouth obediently and lets Spock feed him. Spock tips the glass enough for a sip’s worth to spill down onto Jim’s tongue, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s nothing more than water. He should’ve guessed as much. But it doesn’t matter. He didn’t come to drink; he came to be _dominated_ , and he drinks what his lover gives him until the glass is taken away again. 

As Spock sets the half-empty glass down on the table, Jim mutters huskily, “You shouldn’t have let me drink after I flirted with that other patron and the waitress.” Spock’s eyes flash, but he quickly reins it in again. 

He says evenly, “I have other ways of punishing you.” The very thought makes Jim shiver. He tries to keep the smirk off his face but might be failing.

This time, he’s tugged forward by the chain. It pulls against the back of his neck and drags him into Spock’s mouth, the kiss just as ripe and perfect as before. Spock seems to take particular pleasure in pausing to nip at Jim’s lips, biting and dragging them, as though they could get any pinker. When Jim manages to open his eyes, he sees the haze in Spock’s and can’t help but wonder if pon farr really is around the corner. He half hopes so. He doesn’t relish in Spock’s pain and that stinging loss of control, but he so loves being _ravished_. He growls against Spock’s mouth, “You should cover me in seed to mark me, so that everyone knows I’m _yours_.” Spock kisses him harder, holding onto his hair and forcing him so close. The other arm loops around his waist, keeping him in as Spock leans forward, reaching for the table. When they settle back, Jim expects to see the drink in Spock’s fingers, but instead he gets a flash of metal, difficult to see in the low light. It disappears around his back, and something thin and cool presses against his tailbone. Definitely metal. The rod that was in the drink, he thinks. 

It’s dragged down, pushing at the waistband of Jim’s pants before it’s forced inside, Spock’s hand following, and Jim pulls his own hands back to shove his pants down his hips. He didn’t bother wearing underwear. Spock drags the rod between the cheeks of Jim’s ass, right to his furrowed entrance, and when Jim tries to look back to see, he’s grabbed by the hair again and kissed all the fiercer. The tiny stick starts to push against his hole, the tip secreting some kind of liquid against it. It’s round, smooth, and pops inside a second later, but Jim’s gasp is swallowed in Spock’s mouth. 

Bit by bit, Spock pushes the rod higher inside Jim, slipping slickly along his walls. Jim tries not to squirm, tries to just take it, even though it’s a strange sensation. He can only hope it’s a prelude to Spock’s long, thick cock, green-tinted and veined and always so full that it can fill Jim’s stomach right up. He’s not sure if he wants to suck on it now or ride it. Both. He wants Spock in every orifice, and he has that, in a way, their mouths still sealed and Spock’s fingertips under his ass, spreading open his cheeks. The rod goes deeper and deeper, until Jim doesn’t think he can take it anymore, and then he hears a little electronic ‘click,’ and it starts to grow.

The rod expands inside him, oozing more liquid, stretching him open evenly and all at once. Spock pistons the instrument lightly in and out, fucking Jim while he trembles and tries to keep still. It’s slow and careful enough not to cause any pain, but it makes him _ache_ for more, and it grows and grows until Jim can’t help himself anymore, and he moans, “ _Spock_ ,” and buries his face in Spock’s shoulder. 

Spock simply holds him, continues to fuck him with the alien tool, and murmurs soothingly, “You are beautiful like this, my beloved.” It’s a Vulcan endearment that makes Jim tremble, his grip tightening on Spock’s shoulders. The instrument doesn’t stop until Jim’s worried he’ll break. 

It’s pulled out all at once, harsh and quick. Jim sits up sharply, gasping, his ass clenching in its wake and leaking all over Spock’s lap. Spock places the tool beside him on the bench and unclasps his own pants, before lifting Jim’s hips into the right position. He looks up at Jim, a fierce possessiveness all over his handsome features. It only makes Jim more aroused—he’s Spock’s to possess. 

Spock asks softly, “Whom do you belong to?”

Jim means to say _you, Commander_ , but instead murmurs, “Only you, _t’hy’la._ ”

He’s kissed and slammed down onto Spock’s lap, where the real claiming begins.


End file.
